The Derring-Do Club and the Empire of the Dead (13 page)

A man dressed in smart civilian clothing, with a high starched collar and oiled hair, rushed up.

“This is the Vögte,” Pieter hissed in Earnestine’s ear: “Careful.”

“Welcome home, Your Highness,” said the Vögte. He didn’t, or couldn’t, turn his head, which was unsettling.

“It is good to be home,” Pieter replied, his voice pitched loud to be heard by everyone in the courtyard, and he turned like a performer accepting applause. This was for show, Earnestine realised.

“I see Oberst Kroll.”

The bear–like Kroll had disembarked from the far side of the carriage and had now come around to face the welcoming party.

“Hauptmann Schneider and Herr Metzger were unavoidably detained,” said Kroll.

The Vögte clapped his hands: “Ah ha!”

“They’re dead,” Prince Pieter said.

“Ah…”

There was a silence, while they all stood like actors on a stage waiting for someone to speak first. It was as if one of them had forgotten their cue. Earnestine wondered if it was herself, but she decided to keep quiet, and it turned out that she was the subject of the next line.

“And who is this?” The Vögte’s gaze was intense, examining and quite rude, so Earnestine stood stock still, steeling herself not to flinch.

Pieter answered: “This is–”

“I am His Royal Highness’s Secretary,” Earnestine said.

“A
female
secretary?” the Vögte replied.

Earnestine felt herself bristling at the way the man twisted the word for her sex.

“Yes,” she said. “I am proficient with the Malling–Hansen Writing Ball.”

“Ah, we have a Sholes and Glidden Type–Writer.”

“Slower though, isn’t it,” Earnestine countered, “with the keys not being in an optimum arrangement?”

“Slower perhaps, but you can see what you have written, whereas with a Malling–Hansen you cannot correct any mistakes.”

“I don’t make mistakes.”

The Vögte snorted, turned and indicated that they should now go inside. Earnestine caught a glimpse of a huge grin plastered over the Prince’s face before he regained his composure. The Prince and his party followed with Earnestine tagging along on the Prince’s left. They strode through cold corridors made of large granite blocks and up seemingly endless stone spiral staircases before arriving at the Prince’s quarters. Earnestine quite lost her sense of direction and the view from the window was of anonymous snow covered mountain peaks.

“These are the Prince’s rooms,” the Vögte told Earnestine, “his drawing room, his study, his bedroom.”

“I see,” Earnestine said, stopping at the threshold of that final room.

“Your room is through here and this connecting door,” the Vögte informed her.

Reluctantly, Earnestine went through the male preserve with its Spartan bed and table. Finally, she reached another bedroom, functional, but perfectly adequate; indeed, it was luxurious in comparison to the dormitories of the Eden College for Young Ladies.

“There’s only one door,” she said, “without a lock.”

“So that you are at the Prince’s beck and call at any time of the day… or night.”

“I see.”

The Vögte sneered: “For
dictation
.”

“I’m not sure I like your tone.”

Unfortunately, the Vögte had withdrawn to the Prince’s bedroom to whisper to his Master. Earnestine checked the bed, dressing table and chair to see if any of these would be suitable for barricading the door, but they were clearly wanting in this regard.

This fussing meant that Earnestine missed the arrival of another man, taller than Pieter, who filled the door to the corridor with his wide frame. Earnestine was startled by the man’s appearance, his dark moustache and pointed beard.

“Pieter,” he said.

“Gustav!”

“Sie sind zurückgekommen.”

“Yes, brother, I’m back – I managed somehow.”

“English, how quaint, we are all speaking English these days.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“So, you agree with the plan.”

“I do–”

The tall man, Gustav, barged past and stood as if he owned the room. Despite his uniform having all the usual frippery of medals and a sash, Earnestine had the impression that he had military experience: his boots were functional.

Earnestine stepped back in deference and found herself standing next to the Vögte, who diminished himself by bending his spine. She could smell his cologne.

“No more running away,” Gustav said.

“I was on holiday,” Pieter replied.

“And now you are unpacking your belongings, I see,” Gustav said, lingering for a moment on Earnestine as he surveyed the temporary clutter. “And you have brought back a souvenir.”

Earnestine blinked rapidly: yes, he had implied she was a ‘belonging’. She wasn’t going to stand for that and opened her mouth to–

“Any news!?” Pieter interrupted.

“Our plans proceed to schedule: don’t they, Vögte?”

“Ja, mein Graf.”

“And the Great Plan?” Pieter asked.

“Oh yes, brother, your destiny is here.”

“My destiny?”

“Ja… and she is blonde.”

When the two brothers squared up to each other, their profiles looked alike. They were from the same design, but where Pieter was elegant and chiselled, Gustav was coarse and constructed somehow. There was clearly no love lost between the two: she was pleased to think that she had kept a tight rein on her sisters and that there were no arguments amongst the Deering–Dolittles.

Gustav laughed, a deep amused chuckle: “I almost envy you,” he said. “She has spirit for you to tame. Or perhaps she will domesticate you.”

If Pieter had a reply, he missed his opportunity as Gustav marched out, his stride thumping down the stone corridor outside. He was long gone before anyone moved again. The Vögte slowly straightening his posture to raise himself to Prince Pieter’s level and Earnestine shuffling away from both of the men.

“I’d like to meet her,” Pieter said to the Vögte.

I bet you would, Earnestine thought, angry without understanding why.

“It is not wise for his Royal Highness to see his fiancée before the wedding,” the Vögte said. “Bad luck.”

“May I send her a message – a greeting, perhaps a declaration of love?”

The Vögte’s eyes narrowed as he weighed up the Prince’s intentions: “Very well, send it with your Secretary. I can show him….
her
the way.”

“Very well, Vögte, would you wait outside while I compose a letter.”

“I have the confidence of the Graf and Gräfin.”

“Vögte, wait outside.”

“As you wish.”

The Vögte bowed obsequiously and taking his time about it, and then he sidled out.

Earnestine and Pieter were left alone.

“What is–”

The Prince silenced Earnestine with a gesture, his finger to his lip. Earnestine was about to object when she realised that the Prince was listening at the door. She waited until he had checked outside.

“Clear,” he said, closing the door gently.

“What is going on?” Earnestine asked. “What does he mean by ‘your destiny’?”

“I am to marry a Princess.”

Blinking, Earnestine said: “I see.”

“It is–”

“Congratulations, I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”

“I have no feelings for her.”

“Then why marry her?”

“To join our family in alliance with another and to produce an heir to two thrones. It’s the Gräfin’s Great Plan.”

“Surely you have a say in this?”

“If I do not, then the Saxe–Coburg will win.”

“Will win what?”

“The world.”

“A nice wedding present.”

“My Aunt has seen to it that I am to be married to a Princess, someone of the right connections and royal blood. It’s all part of the ‘Great Plan’ – I could show you the plan: it’s in another part of the castle.”

He seated himself by his writing desk, hurriedly gathering various implements together, but he was flustered and dropped a pen on the floor. Earnestine bent down and retrieved it.

“Perhaps, as your secretary, I should do that.”

“Good idea.”

He vacated the chair and held it back for Earnestine. She sat, jigged it forward and then efficiently organised the desk for dictation. When she was ready, she looked at him expectantly.

“My dear… Your Royal Highness… My dear… I’m not sure how to start.”

“Perhaps where you left off,” Earnestine said. “What did you talk about last time you met?”

“We have never met.”

“I see.”

“What do you think I should write?”

Her pen hovered over the parchment, ready, the nib at the correct angle for her finest calligraphy, but she was conscious of the blankness and size of the page as well as the pregnancy and length of the silence.

“What do you want to say?” Earnestine asked finally.

The Prince sat on the bed and wrung his hands.

“Do you want me to be honest?”

“Honesty is the best policy.”

“Are you sure?”

Earnestine was emphatic: “Yes.”

“What I would like to write is… erm,” said the Prince: “Your Royal Highness, thank you for the honour you are prepared to give to myself and my family – I’m not going too fast am I?”

“Not at all.”

“…myself and my family. Regretfully I must decline.”

Earnestine scratched across the parchment.

Pieter leant forward trying to look: “Is it?”

“It’s fine.”

“Where was I?”

“Declining.”

“The truth is that I have fallen in love with an English girl, she is nothing… not even from Surrey – ha, but she has captivated me from the first moment I saw her: by her beauty, by her strength of character and by her honesty. I know that duty is important, but in this matter I must follow my heart. I intend to propose and marry her and… you’ve stopped writing.”

“I thought it wise.”

Sitting upright on the chair, Earnestine was higher than the Prince, who was still sitting on the bed, his hands together as if in prayer or to beg as he leant forward eagerly. She had read the works of Jane Austen:
Pride and Prejudice
, and other, vanity–published, three–volume novels. She thought it foolish when they described how men constantly dropped to one knee to propose. Girls in the Common Room, common girls, even boasted of the number of times some gentleman, if that was the correct word, had popped the question. She thought it akin to cricket statistics: so many proposals per marriage, the number of catches and bowlings over. She had always thought it was empty boasting, as made up as Austen’s novels, but here she was, a mere three days out in the field, and here was no less than a Prince with his knee at the crease.

The Prince motioned at the letter.

What now, Earnestine wondered?

“Did you get as far my proposing?” he asked.

Earnestine glanced at the letter: “I didn’t get as far as falling in love.”

“Would you perhaps reach that far?”

“I am hardly a free woman.”

“You are spoken for!? I apologise, I had no idea.”

“Free as in ‘not kidnapped’.”

“Ah, yes, I had forgotten.”

“I have not.”

“But if you were free?”

“Would it be a condition of my release?”

The Prince stood and paced. A few times he paused as if to ask another question or make a debating point. Earnestine watched him, alternately amused and exasperated. Finally, he stopped.

“Perhaps this letter is a mistake,” he said.

Earnestine put the pen back in its holder and crumpled the paper into nothing. Meanwhile, the Prince went to the door for her.

“Please convey my feelings to Her Royal Highness, the Princess,” he said. “And find out what you can.”

“What feelings are those?”

“Whatever feelings you deem appropriate,” Pieter said. “My own are not wanted.”

“If that is your wish?”

Prince Pieter did not reply, but instead showed her into the corridor and signalled to the Vögte, who was waiting at the far end by the leaded windows.

The Vögte, whom Earnestine saw more and more as some fawning troll, changed his posture as soon as the door closed behind her. Whereas he had bowed and scraped to the Graf, and showed a reluctant deference to the Prince, he was now erect and arrogant. Clearly, he held mere secretaries, even secretaries to royal personages, with contempt.

“You took your time,” he sneered.

“His Royal Highness, Prince Pieter, wished to compose his letter carefully,” she replied, enjoying the sound of his title and name as she said it.

The man’s gaze raked downwards to fix upon Earnestine’s empty hands.

“I am to convey his feelings in person,” Earnestine explained.

“His Royal Highness’s future consort is this way.”

They started off down the various corridors, Earnestine making a careful note of every turn and making sure she glanced down the side passages as they went. She counted steps too, hoping that it would not be complicated and that she would be able to draw a good map while the memory was still fresh. She knew she would be capable of the task so long as she was not distracted.

“The Princess is very pretty,” the Vögte said.

Pretty, indeed.

Earnestine remained concentrated on her task: thirty two, thirty three…

“No more than fifteen or sixteen,” the Vögte continued.

…thirty four, thirty fifteen or thirty sixteen – honestly.

The Prince needed someone he could turn to. The offices of state clearly needed a confidante, someone trustworthy, to hear his thoughts and assess them objectively and truthfully. If he was surrounded by these fawning Jawohl–men, then he would lose touch with reality. What he really needed was someone firm, but honest; someone who understood duty, someone like… well, someone like herself.

She gasped.

The Vögte turned indignantly: “Did you say something?”

“Oh nothing, just a slight cough.”

She looked behind her and realised that she had no idea where she was in this stone maze.

“Forgotten something?”

“Not at all,” she said firmly. “Shall we continue?”

By the time they reached the landing and the Vögte came to a halt, Earnestine was sure they were at the far end of the world. The Vögte lowered his voice: “Remember to speak only when spoken to.”